


Watch The Queen Conquer

by Shine_Like_Neon



Category: Fable 2 (Video Game), Fable 3 (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anti-Hero, F/M, Friendship/Love, Reaver Saves The Day, Reaver has a heart, True Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-03 16:12:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13999812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shine_Like_Neon/pseuds/Shine_Like_Neon





	1. Chapter One

_Well, she's certainly talented_. I mused, watching the Princess fight side by side with the revolutionary leader Page with grace and skill. _But she's no Hero._  
  
 

That was, I supposed, technically untrue. The Hero of Brightwall was a hero if only by virtue of the fact that she was defined as such by the unwashed masses of Albion. But she wasn't a Hero, not like her supposed predecessor: the Hero of Bowerstone. A true Hero if ever there was one.

And a damn-sight more impressive that the chit currently slaughtering my guests in a pool of blood and viscera.

If she had been a mere _patch_ on the Hero of Bowerstone, there wouldn't have been any blood. No guts or gore. Only charred bones and the feeling of sparks dancing over my skin. I actually rather missed that sensation...

However, that was neither here nor there.

As boring as it was, I was going to have to abandon my current plans to save Albion _(because obviously I was the only one currently planning on saving this cursed land; I seemed to be the only one left in Albion with any sense in their head)_ , and come up with something new. After dismissing the current Princess and the revolutionary, of course, and sending them safely on their way.

They were currently useless, but if they found out I was planning something, then they might try and stop me, somehow making themselves useful...to the Crawler, which just wouldn't do. I was working hard enough as it was, trying to track down those who could actually be useful in the fight against the oncoming darkness, and I didn't need these do-gooders getting in my way. Useless as they were at the present time, they may not stay that way.

If nothing else, they could serve as cannon fodder, or bait to lure the Crawler into the open. Or serve any other purpose I may find for them.

Put simply, I wasn't ruling anything out just yet; I knew better by now. At the end of it all, the Princess and her little friends may not be my first choice...but they may become my only choice, if nothing else was feasible before the Crawler arrived. I hoped to all that was, had been, or ever would be holy, that that wasn't the case...but my hopes had long since stopped being important to whatever there was that was holy or unholy. I only had myself to rely upon.

Myself...and maybe, _maybe_ , some old friends.

Sister Hannah, as she was now demanding to be called, was easy enough to find. She had never hidden herself from any of us: merely insisted that we stayed away. I had respected that for more than three decades now, while she had allowed the people of Albion: the people of her home town, of the Temple of Light: who had raised her, to suffer. It was time for her to reclaim the right to be called a Hero, before it was too late. It had taken a lot of convincing, especially considering her hatred of the man trying to do that convincing - that being myself, of course - but she had finally agreed to leave her northern monastery and return to Albion.

Garth had, surprisingly, been far easier to convince to return: somewhat of a shock, since the last time I’d seen the mage I had attempted to 'kill' him. Obviously, I'd known he'd survive my little joke: I'd only wanted him out of my way. It seemed he knew that too, holding no ill will towards me: which was ever so kind of him. He was currently living in the ruins of Brightwall Tower, rather than staying with me (since, despite forgiving the incident in Samarkand, he hadn’t forgiven it, and didn’t trust me...though I could hardly blame him for that), which was fine by me. He would only ruin the party while he was here...and try and put me off the most important part of my quest. The part he couldn't know about.

     
  
_'She’s dead'_ , he'd say, _'We all went to her funeral, even you_ ', he'd argue, _'You're insane'_ , bother he and Hannah would sneer. But they didn't know what I did.

 

They didn’t know Sparrow was alive.

But I did.

If anyone in Albion had been paying even the slightest bit of attention, or weren’t complete and utter idiots, they would have seen the same thing that I always had. The Hero of Bowerstone, the true Hero of Bowerstone, had never assumed the throne. Sparrow had never become Queen.

What she had done was truly start to live her life on her own terms. No more helping the masses just because they were incapable of helping themselves, no more fighting other people’s battles, no running errands for the arrogant and lazy beings who had thought to use her. She had left all of Albion behind to do what she had always wanted. To be free.

But now Albion needed her.

 _I_ needed her.

And I wasn’t going to rest until she was back here. She was the only one who could definitively defeat the Crawler for good: the only one who could put a stop to its unquenchable thirst for darkness and power. It wouldn’t end with Albion, just as it hadn’t ended with Aurora, hadn’t ended with the Crawler’s own special space in Hell. It was in all of our interests for Sparrow to come back to Albion and defeat the Crawler once and for all...before it got too strong for even her to manage. If that happened, then everyone, everything, everywhere was doomed. But it wasn’t going to happen. I wasn’t going to allow it.

Of course, it was purely out of self interest. I didn’t want to die, and I didn’t want to live under the nightmarish rule of the Crawler. Besides, if the Crawler prevailed, who knew how the Shadow Court would react? I certainly didn’t. And that unpredictability was simply unacceptable from anything or anyone who wasn’t me.

No matter how much (I refuse to use the word ‘desperately’...) I needed Sparrow to return to Albion, though, the infuriating woman was nowhere to be found. Even my sources at the edge of the known world had no word of her, which was rare. The relationship between Sparrow and I was...hard to define, but one of the few things we did was let the other know that we were alive every few years. Sparrow had always sent word, or letters, or gifts, via my scouts: no have not heard from her in almost three decades was...concerning. I refused to believe anything bad had happened to her - or, at least, although I was sure bad things had happened to her: I was certain that none of them had ended her, or damaged her beyond repair. She was the Hero of Bowerstone. Leader of men, slayer of monsters, nightmare of the nightmares. Rightful ruler of Albion. Nothing could keep her down for long.

However, her lack of acknowledgement was putting me a little on edge. If only because it left me in the dark, tactically speaking. Without knowledge of Sparrow's location, situation, or allegiances, I had no idea what to plan for: which meant I had to plan for everything: which was exhausting.

Of course, it wasn’t so tiring that I was forgetting to lock the doors to my private chambers. And yet, the door to my bathroom was ajar, with vanilla-scented steam curling around the door-frame.

That just wasn’t right.

Carefully closing the door leading to the antechamber separating the bathroom from the hallway, I pulled my pistol from its holster before lightly pushing the already ajar door further open: silently reminding myself not to shoot the servant responsible for oiling all the door hinges, since she had actually done her job this week.

The room was thick with steam and the smell of vanilla and something a little more exotic, dimly lit by a single candelabra resting on the counter the sink was carved in to, throwing the room into sharp contrasts of warm gold light, and blue-black shadows. The first clue to the intruder’s identity was the pile of black clothing, unidentifiable in the heap it was on: rendering it useless. Then there were the thigh-high, scarred and battered black leather boots that were all too familiar, but I didn’t wish to make assumptions. But then there was the glowing silver long sword, sparkling with multihued sparks or red, purple, green, and blue. And after that, it was no shock when I opened the door fully and saw the back of a blonde head emerging from the steaming, claw-footed bath in the centre of the room.

 

"Really, was a letter of warning too much to ask?"

"It's good to see you too, Reaver." Sparrow laughed, her smile obvious in her voice, even if I couldn’t see her face just yet.

 

I didn't need too...and, besides that, I was saving that for last. Instead, I ran my eyes over the outline of the pale golden shoulders, just peaking over the rounded rim of the bath, the freckles I knew were smattered across her skin invisible from this distance. It always amazed me how Sparrow’s skin changed: from deep tan at her hands and forearms, to sun-kissed over her shoulders and throat, to the ivory of her ribs. And all adorned with the curling, arcane blue glow of the hard-earned Will Lines. She was a sight to behold, even without considering the full hips, strong thighs, and long legs that had led many a man to distraction. Myself included.

   

"You too, little bird." I murmured, leaning down to press my lips against the slender column of her throat. Not a kiss, but close, close enough to make Sparrow tilt her head to the side to block my access, shying away even as she giggled. It was a side of the former Hero that few would ever get to see: the unguarded, playful side, that leaned her head back not to glare at me, but to pout instead:

"Not nice. You know I'm ticklish."

I merely smirked at her: motioning for her to scoot forward as I shed my coat and shirt: "I'm not nice, little bird, that's why you like me."

"Who says I like you?"

"I do. And I know everything." I chuckled, sliding into the space Sparrow had vacated for me: wrapping my arms around her waist and pulling her back to lean against my chest: head draped back against my shoulder: "Almost everything, anyway."

Sparrow quirked an eyebrow at me, eyes losing their lazy cloudiness: "That sounds like you're about to ask me a question."

"Why did you come back, after all this time of ignoring me?"

"It's been...a difficult few years." Sparrow murmured, her voice heavy with regret: "I thought I'd found a woman who could bring back what I'd lost. But the price she asked was too high."

 

I frowned where Sparrow couldn't see the expression, silently cursing her soft heart.

Even after all these years, Sparrow hadn't learned to harden her heart like I had. She still felt emotions as keenly as any normal man or woman of Albion, and not like the immortal she had become. The loss of her unborn child had torn her in two, especially when it was lost because of the man who had also taken her sister, and most loyal companion from her. Almost a century later, she was still trying to find a way to undo what Lucien's thugs had done to her, despite the continuous heartbreak it caused her. My poor little bird.

There was nothing I could do to dissuade her. And there was nothing I could say to bring her comfort: especially since talking wasn't what Sparrow and I indulged in when we shared our time together.

 

All I could do was carefully avoid touching the scar that marred Sparrow's belly, and pretend I didn't know what she was talking about...even though I refused not to offer my assistance: "For you. Perhaps I should talk to her."

"Maybe." Sparrow shrugged non-noncommittally, even though I knew she wouldn't accept my aid: "But first, I heard Albion needs my help. Again."

"Not Albion, little bird." I remarked dryly, knowing how much Sparrow despised the people of her homeland: " _Me_. I need your help. I wouldn't call you back for any other reason."

That, at least, caused her lips to quirk upwards: if only for a second: "Of course, I should have known. Why do you need my help, Reaver?"

        

_Here is where it got complex._

   

Because though Sparrow hated Albion: she hated Hammer, Garth, and Theresa more than anyone else. They had taken her through Hell, and then when things looked darkest for her, they abandoned her. Without a purpose, without her family, without anywhere to go or anyone to turn to: they had left her. Hammer had informed us all that she didn't want Sparrow in her life anymore, and Garth and I had travelled hundreds of miles away, to a desert virtually inaccessible to Sparrow. It had only taken me a year to come back to Albion, two to find my way to Sparrow, but by then she was well and truly close to the end: worked to the bone, laying in an abandoned marsh puddle and waiting to die. To my knowledge, I was the only one who had made any effort to help the Hero return to her feet: the only one who had reached out to her...and she had never forgiven any of them for that.

It was a damning charge: to be out-done by someone like me: someone who was by their own admission rather selfish and interested only in my own well-being.

Sparrow was, though, still a pragmatic and sensible woman. Hammer and Garth's involvement would surely be unpleasant, but it was unfortunately necessary. Their - and my - strength would feed hers, giving her the power she needed to beat the Crawler. Trying such a feat without them would be difficult, maybe even impossible, and Sparrow was at least not too proud to refuse to work with those she didn't like.

       

"I'm reassembling the Three Heroes. And their leader."

"Theresa hasn't hidden her whereabouts."

"Theresa isn't a leader." I told Sparrow firmly, feeling her shoulders stiffen when she could no longer deny knowledge of what I wanted from her: "She is a charmless manipulator, and a being no-one in Albion will follow. You, however, are the rightful Queen of Albion. Our leader."

Sparrow growled, but didn't lash out: "What if I don't want to lead?"

"Then we all die."

"Perhaps that wouldn't be the worst outcome."

             

 _She's been gone too long, suffered something too dark,_ something in the back of my mind panicked, fear digging it's claws into my mind: _You're at risk of losing her - you won't be able to stop her this time._

        

Refusing to give into my irrational panic, though, I smoothed a hand down Sparrow's arm: dropping my eyes to our hands as I entwined our fingers - and told her the truth, for once in her life: "Perhaps not. But I don't want to see your light go out, Sparrow."

"I don't have any light left, Reaver. It died a long time ago."

  

Her tone told me that this conversation was over.

Silence fell around us, as Sparrow curled her knees up to her chest: making herself as small as possible where she sat between my legs, ducking her head - prompting me to lean protectively over her, and pretend I couldn't see the silent tears streaking over her cheeks.


	2. Chapter Two

_Two Months Later..._

     

            

      

Life was getting progressively more difficult with the other Heroes under my roof.

No matter what the stories the bards told about the magnificent four _(more like the magnificent two and their ordinary little friends, if you asked me: not that anyone did)_ : of our camaraderie and close bonds: the three of us did not get along well. And it was just the three of us.

Sparrow hadn't stuck around: leaving before the dawn broke the night when I had told her of my plans. Garth spent much of his time silently judging my decisions: business, personal, and anywhere in between. And Hammer did much the same, only she was a lot more vocal. I couldn't do anything without her loudly condemning me from within my own home. It was swiftly becoming intolerable...but there was nothing I could do about it. Which was why she haunted me around the house, waiting outside the rooms I inhabited or glaring at me from doorways or - _on very special occasions_ \- combining the two.

Just as she was doing now: glaring at me is if anything she could say would make me give a damn about her opinion. Which I did not and would not. Ever.

     

"What did you just did was evil."

 

I looked up from the ledgers I was going over, affecting a bored facial expression. Not that it was difficult to act disinterested when this woman was _unforgivably_ dull, and insisted on spending far too much time around me to allow me any time to recover from the sheer, mind-numbing banality of her presence. I swore it was making me lose my mind.

Truly, I did feel less and less intelligent every time she opened her mouth. 

 

Hence why I had to actually engage with her to ask: "And what did I do this time?"

"You killed that man in cold blood!" she shouted, as if I should have known what she was going to say. As if there wasn't a list as long as the Bower River of reasons why Hannah thought I was evil...although maybe the dead body in front of her should have been somewhat of an indication.

Looking dispassionately at the still cooling corpse in front of my desk, I shrugged: "He was a spy who was demanding money to keep his mouth shut, and thought he could do so to my face without being shot - meaning he was also an idiot, and probably couldn't be trusted to keep quiet anyway."

Sister Hannah, as she had reverted to being called, merely shook her head at me: acting very high and mighty for a woman who had was currently doing her daily prayers in rooms I, such an evil man, had provided for her: "That didn't mean he had to die."

"Didn't have to die?" I responded, quirking an eyebrow: "Let us not forget,  _Hammer_ , you are no stranger to bloodshed. You've killed your fair share - and not just monsters, if the stories are to be believed."

"That's different."

I quirked and eyebrow at her, shaking my head as I walked away: "Is it? Is it  _really_?"

 

She spluttered, left speechless by my indifference to her and her morals, before she was ushered aside by new-Barry: who was organising the clean up of the body. Although I would miss my dearly departed servant, I couldn't deny that new-Barry was far quicker than thew original Barry had been. And completely indistractable. He ignored Hannah as if she was a ghost, which prompted her to flounce out of the room, and leaving me eternally grateful to new-Barry. He also didn't talk as much as the original Barry, leaving me to get on with what I was doing without interruption.

Demands from the King were difficult enough to decipher, without holding conversations on top of that.

It seemed Logan was becoming more and more desperate for weaponry and soldiers. I didn't really blame him - he had previously believed that his sister had been aiding the revolution to dethrone him, but now he knew that for certain, and it was putting him on edge. Many in the Palace preferred the Princess to the King, so Logan was now facing a war on two fronts. I was pulling back as much as I could, already knowing Logan was going to lose his throne - _if not his head as well_ \- but there was only so much I could do while also making sure he couldn't accuse me of treason and have me stripped of my assets. This was a complicated game we were playing, and though I was winning, I wasn't as far ahead as I would like. I couldn't afford to make any mistakes.

    

"Hannah tells me that I should come here and tell you to change your ways."

 

 _And yet it seemed I was going to be forced to make some anyway_.

 

Glaring suspiciously at Garth, who had silently appeared in my doorway, I sneered: "Hammer is an idiot."

"She prefers Hannah now, and you know that." Garth remarked, inviting himself to sit in the chair opposite me: refusing to react to my provocative tone. The bastard.

"I _do_ know. That's why I prefer calling her Hammer." I shrugged: "And if you aren't here to condemn me, then why are you making yourself so comfortable in my office? I'm a busy man: I don't have time for this."

Looking me straight in the eye, Garth merely smiled serenely: "I'm here to inquire after our mutual friend."

I didn't pretend not to know who he was talking about - or that we both knew exactly how she would react to know about Garth's interest: "She wouldn't appreciate your questioning."

"So you've spoke to her? How often?"

"Enough to know how she feels about you and Hammer out there." I sneered: "And enough to choose her preference for me not to speak out her over your preference for information. Although that's hardly difficult."

                   

Garth still didn't react - but he didn't need to. All he needed was to get up and leave my office...but it seemed the was in no mood to do so. Instead, he turned his head away and studied the books lining my bookshelves. Looking for something he could use against me. I wasn't concerned.

There was nothing I hid when it came to my business - I was ruthlessly efficient, openly so. Any and all records of my history were carefully hidden in a crumbling shack in Wraithmarsh. And as for my relationship with the Fourth Hero...it was my residence in Millfields that held traces of Sparrow's identity. It was my library there that held copies of the stories she enjoyed: the rooms at the top of the mansion that were designed to her tastes: there Sparrow had stored a few personal items and pieces of clothing. My Bowerstone town house was devoid of Sparrow's influence, since she had never been here, nor ever expressed any desire to do so. Garth could search all he wanted, but he wouldn't find any clues about her here. Though I kept my expression neutral, knowing that looking smug would only alert Garth to the futility of his decision, and maybe prompt him to look somewhere he may actually find something. And I couldn't have that.

Despite her disappearance when I needed her most, I wouldn't allow these people to find their way to Sparrow. Our relationship was strange: it wasn't exclusive, it didn't require us to be close, and we didn't share much other than sex or other displays of physical affection: but I _was_ loyal to her in ways these people would not comprehend. I would defend her whenever and wherever I could, to whatever length I needed to. If she needed to me to hide her trail, I would. If Sparrow needed me to restrain them from coming after her, then that was what I would do. And if I decided their death would protect her life, then as soon as the Crawler was dealt with, I would put a bullet in their brain.

And I was sure Garth knew that.

      

Why else would he insist on asking me about her? "Will Sparrow be joining us on this crusade of yours?"

"How can she be? She's dead."

"You and I both know that's not true, Reaver." Garth chided, frowning at me like a teacher at a disobedient school boy, the ass: "I've sensed a power in Albion that cannot belong to anyone but her. I know she's alive. And that she could be useful."

"She would undeniably be useful." I agreed, looking up from my work for just a second to sneer at Garth, before returning to my work: "If she wasn't being eaten by worms."

 

Garth's eyes flashed with irritation, before he carefully masked the expression - appearing as calm as he always did: "I don't think she is."

"You're right - she's probably _been_ eaten by now."

"If you're so certain Sparrow is dead, why not check? We'll go to her tomb." Garth smirked slightly, as if he'd caught me in a lie. As if, even if I hadn't known Sparrow was alive, I would've thought she was buried in that gaudy, over-sized vanity-project under her castle: "It can hardly hurt."

I let him know exactly what I thought of that plan by shaking my head in disbelief: "Can hardly hurt? No-one is supposed to know you and Hammer are here. You're supposed to be laying low. Not breaking into castles! Besides, even if she was alive - which, I suppose, if any of us other than me were going to cheat death, it would be her - I'm not chasing her around to beg her to help us."

"And why ever not?"

"I wouldn't want her taking all the glory. It's bad enough that I'm going have to share the adulation with you and Hammer. Why risk adding a fourth Hero to share the stage with?"

   

Garth didn't question my explanation.

As far as he was concerned, my ego was - to my mind - a perfectly good reason to deny useful help, which was exactly what I had wanted them all to think. Despite how wise Garth thought he was, or how omniscient Theresa was supposed to be, or...whatever intelligence Hammer believed she had, none of them ever saw through the charade I put on for them. They thought me an egomaniacal, selfish, self-centred bastard. And they weren't completely wrong. But there was more to me than they would ever imagine...and it was entirely to their detriment that they had never bothered to look beyond their own perceptions.

One day, it would come back to haunt them.

But until that day came, I merely focused on balancing Logan's demands with my own interests, ignoring the mage sitting on the opposite side of the desk until he sighed and walked away. Only when the door was firmly shut behind him, and I heard Garth's footsteps echoing down the hallway, that I allowed myself to drop my disinterested demeanour. Irritation made my jaw clench, frustration making me consciously un-clench my fingers from around the pen in my hand before I broke it, while the sudden outrage in my blood left me struggling not to throw something at the door Garth had just exited. It was rare for my emotions to be so strong - a phenomena that emerged only when the time for my yearly sacrifice began to approach, but it was undeniably that this was at least partially Sparrow's fault. If my little bird would just swallow her pride and agree to work with these twits...

...Though I wouldn't work with them either, if given the choice. And I had given Sparrow the choice. She couldn't be blamed for taking the option she deemed best for her: certainly not be someone who spent almost all of their time plotting their own advancement. As much as I wished Sparrow hadn't left, she had, and no amount of useless anger on my part was going to bring her back.

Better to channel that anger into dealing with the mess I was currently in.

The Crawler, despite being the horror that roamed all of our nightmares: whether we knew it or not, was remarkably absent from any form or literature. Even the Shadow Court, one of the most elusive band of creatures I'd ever encountered, cropped up every now and then - usually in the ravings of madmen, but then, very few encountered the Shadows and came back sane. I had found tales of angels and demons, stories of monsters and men, mentions of magic and living beyond true death, but there was nothing: nothing pertaining to the Crawler. I'd found more written details on Sparrow, who routinely rounded up accounts of her life and destroyed them, than I did on the Crawler...but there was one thing that I found that could be construed as useful.

Light.

Despite seemingly an omnipotent demon, the Crawler couldn't stand direct light. It abhorred sunlight and flames: and though light wouldn't kill the beast, it could be used to weaken it. Trap it. Seal it away, as it had been before.

My plan, admittedly, was not the strongest. The Crawler had been locked away before - perhaps it still was - but it had, or would soon, escape: so though putting it in a different cage seemed futile, short of finding a way to end the creature _(which was seemingly increasingly unlikely with each passing day)_ it was the best we could do. Perhaps one day there would someone able and willing to kill the monster, but until then: containment was the best we could manage. I had already started on designing the nightmarish being's new prison. One that _would_ hold it.

It would have to.

 

_We had no other option._


End file.
